tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-46156548221247646582014-10-03T02:08:25.642-04:00The Horrid GirlMemoir of a Swinger, Occultist, and Other Inappropriate Ramblings...HG Paigehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17202621073222851835noreply@blogger.comBlogger17125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4615654822124764658.post-38651455550709818012012-04-21T15:01:00.000-04:002012-04-21T15:01:28.564-04:00Church and Plate<br /><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">I have an Evil Grandmother. (EGM)&nbsp;</div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">She is my paternal grandmother and a Protestant Bible thumper.&nbsp;</div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">Maybe it’s not fair to call her&nbsp;<em>evil,</em>&nbsp;but when I was a teenager, I found out how she disciplined my father. She made him strip naked, kneel on dry grains of rice, then beat him with a leather strap.&nbsp;</div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">That sounds pretty evil to me. I’m sure by today’s standards she would be arrested for child abuse.&nbsp;</div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">Just before I was born, EGM tried to convince my mother to let her raise me. Because, you know, my mom could always have other children. I can not even imagine…&nbsp;&nbsp;</div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">To this day, I’m sure she holds animosity towards my mother because, in her mind, she would have done a better job raising me.&nbsp;</div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">Anyway…&nbsp;</div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">EGM is a stocky woman about 5’ 2”. She has dyed, black hair that frizzes around her face, and small dark eyes that narrow whenever anyone says anything that contradicts her view of the world.&nbsp;Despite her unfriendly appearance, her silent glare is better than her condescending conversation. &nbsp;</div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">One Saturday, when I was in college, EGM came over for dinner. This was a rarity since, as I said, she is evil. She doesn’t get along with anyone. Ever. She especially criticized that my sister and I were raised Catholic (I think she took it personally).&nbsp; After repeated arguments and attempts to circumvent our religion, my parents decided not to discuss religion when she was over for dinner.</div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">It was a clear separation of Church and Plate.&nbsp;</div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">Pre dinner was pseudo polite. A black and white movie played in the background while we talked about my studies. I was a psychology major and believe it or not, EGM is a social worker. Even talking about school was a competition to her.&nbsp; As the conversation went on, it was clear that she was attempting to break down my confidence in my career path, because she knew better.&nbsp;</div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">Eventually, my mother called us into the dinning room.&nbsp;&nbsp;</div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">My grandmother sat next to my father, across from my mother, her stocky body jiggled as she settled into her seat.&nbsp; My sister sat on EGM’s side of the table and I sat beside my mother.</div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">As usual, my sister and I vented our frustrations through inappropriate dinner conversation. We were upset about an animal abuse story we heard on the news. Our conversation drifted from stories of animal abuse to the creative tortures that we thought animal abusers should suffer. We were on the receiving end of several dirty looks from my grandmother. Perhaps it was the, "how to keep our victim alive as we tortured him for days,” that upset her.&nbsp;</div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">“The Bible says man has dominion over animals.” I knew she couldn’t stay quiet for long. She reminds me of&nbsp;Dolores Umbridge from the Harry Potter movies, completely self righteous.&nbsp;</div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">I told her that, biologically, man<em>&nbsp;is</em>&nbsp;an animal.&nbsp;</div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">“I am not an animal,” she yelled across the table, then turned to my mother, “They are like this because you didn’t beat them enough.”&nbsp;</div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">My sister and I stared at each other, wide eyed and appalled. I didn’t know if I should laugh or just ignore her.&nbsp;</div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">“If you ask them, I was too harsh,” my mother chimed in.</div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">My grandmother tried to justify beating my sister and I by quoting more Bible passages. Knowing what she did to my father, it made me so angry.&nbsp;<em>Who the hell does she think she is?</em>&nbsp;</div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">I told her that the Bible was just a book, written by a&nbsp;<em>man</em>. I emphasized,&nbsp;<em>man</em>. I said, “If you need a book to be close to God, then I feel sorry for you. God should be here.” I pointed to my heart.&nbsp;</div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">Granted, I said it to piss her off, but I was not prepared for the woman to go berserko.</div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">She reached across the dinning table, grabbed me by my wrists, and started to shake me. I was pulled halfway across the table before I realized what she was doing. I think she was trying to pull me closer to smack me. I firmly, but calmly said, “Let go,”&nbsp; as I got to my feet.&nbsp;</div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">I wasn't going to push an old lady.&nbsp;&nbsp;<em>No matter how evil she is.</em>&nbsp;</div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">My mother finally stood up and yelled, “Enough.” &nbsp;</div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">EGM let go of my wrists and glared at me, her beady eyes expressing murder. She grabbed her bag and stormed out of the house, ranting her religious nonsense under her breath. &nbsp;</div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">That was the last time she was ever invited to dinner.&nbsp;</div>HG Paigehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17202621073222851835noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4615654822124764658.post-41791043726607091902012-03-14T09:53:00.000-04:002012-04-21T14:57:55.113-04:00BLASPHEMY<div class="p1">I knew the instant the words left my mouth, it was a mistake.</div><div class="p1"><br /></div><div class="p2">“Andrew could do it.”</div><div class="p1"><br /></div><div class="p2">I am aware that making comparisons between boyfriends is a BIG no-no. But making sexual comparisons is relationship BLASPHEMY.&nbsp; &nbsp;</div><div class="p1"><br /></div><div class="p2">David loathed Andrew. He was younger, stronger, charismatic, and my family loved him. He was also known for his large penis nicknamed Black Magic. Andrew, like David, is Jewish.&nbsp; When he was circumcised, the skin on his penis darkened, hence Black Magic.&nbsp;</div><div class="p1"><br /></div><div class="p2">Andrew is a very long, very complicated story. He was my college sweetheart. We had tons of crazy adventures. I can only describe him as being very loud in that funny, obnoxious, Jack Black kind of way. I always felt something was missing, I knew he was not <i>the one.</i>&nbsp;</div><div class="p1"><br /></div><div class="p2">I dated Andrew for almost three years. There were a number of problems in the relationship, and after a disastrous vacation, we broke up. I was in my first year of graduate school, and Andrew was in his fifth year of college (after changing his major). We were going in different directions.&nbsp;</div><div class="p1"><br /></div><div class="p2">“I don’t want to marry you.” I blurted it out. He hadn’t asked, but we talked about it. We had a huge argument at a Superbowl party the night before and it was the final straw.&nbsp;</div><div class="p1"><br /></div><div class="p2">He was silent for an awkward thirty seconds. Without looking at me, he nodded&nbsp; and said he didn’t want to marry me either. We shared our crocodile tears and went our merry ways. Two days later, I called him to get back together. I’m such an ass. He said he was too young to have been in such an involved relationship. &nbsp;</div><div class="p1"><br /></div><div class="p2">I was not happy, but in true ass format, I continued to sleep with him anyway. In my own defense, I don’t like to jump from one dick to another. I find it slutty. He told me that he didn’t want to date anyone else and that he still loved me. It made me think that sex with Andrew was safe.&nbsp;</div><div class="p1"><br /></div><div class="p2">It ended up a really bad idea.&nbsp;</div><div class="p1"><br /></div><div class="p2">&nbsp;A month after we broke up, a bunch of my friends went to a party at a hotel. I went with Andrew. He was’t himself. He was distant, chatting on the phone, and halfway through the night he got piss-ass drunk and passed out in our hotel room. &nbsp;</div><div class="p1"><br /></div><div class="p2">I thought I was being polite by turning the ringer off so he could sleep. A text message came through while the phone was in my hand.</div><div class="p1"><br /></div><div class="p2">“I Love You Too.”</div><div class="p1"><br /></div><div class="p2">At that moment, a psycho-rage took over.&nbsp;</div><div class="p1"><br /></div><div class="p2">My first instinct was to stab him in his sleep with a room service butter knife. I held back. I know we broke up, but I loved him. He said he loved me, that there wasn’t anyone else. LIAR.&nbsp;</div><div class="p1"><br /></div><div class="p2">I managed to calm myself down then went through his phone. I pulled up all the inbox and sent text messages and showed the conversation to my friends. I told them I was going to confront him. As any good friends would do, they came with with me. &nbsp;</div><div class="p1"><br /></div><div class="p2">Andrew was out cold. He didn’t wake up when I yelled at him. He didn’t wake up when I straddled him, grabbed him by his collar, then smacked him across the face (repeatedly). I calmed down, filled an ice bucket with, well ice, and some cold water then dumped it on him. That woke him up.&nbsp;</div><div class="p1"><br /></div><div class="p2">A huge argument ensued and a crowd of our friends gathered to watch the specticle. I think someone video taped it. I vaguely remember pushing a camera out of my face. I grabbed his phone from the table while he was denying everything.&nbsp; Andrew reached around to grab it. In our struggle, I accidentally elbowed him in the nose. Red ran down his lips and chin in a bloody mess. I didn’t want him to see my concerned.&nbsp; In a panic I smashed his phone against the wall and yelled, “fuck you,” as I left.&nbsp;</div><div class="p1"><br /></div><div class="p2">I’m really not a violent person. I much prefer psychological destruction, but things happen. That was pretty much the end of that. I was so depressed and cried for about two weeks before I sucked it up. &nbsp;</div><div class="p1"><br /></div><div class="p2">&nbsp;I went out that weekend and met a rebound guy. He was sweet, but weird. He had a foot fetish. On our first date he asked to see my feet then gave me a big hug in approval. We only dated for three months, I wasn’t feeling it. He was also Jewish, and said he wouldn’t marry a girl unless she was Jewish too. The religion thing made it a pointless relationship.&nbsp;</div><div class="p1"><br /></div><div class="p2">About ten months after my break-up with Andrew, I met David. Early in our relationship, while&nbsp; watching a baseball game at David’s apartment, my phone rang. It was Andrew, crying. The whore he was dating, dumped him. I found out he actually met her two months before we broke up and she knew about me (hence, the whore). To this day, he swears nothing happened until after we broke up. Yeah, right.</div><div class="p1"><br /></div><div class="p2">I have to admit, I enjoyed how upset he was. I savored every pathetic, little whimper that poured out of his mouth. I was so giddy about it, I made the mistake of telling David way too much about him, including Black Magic. &nbsp;</div><div class="p1"><br /></div><div class="p2">Andrew eventually went to California to hook up with some stripper he met on the internet or something. He said he wanted to, “sow his wild oats.” He called me a few weeks after he returned to New York.&nbsp; Andrew thought we would start dating again. He said he got everything out of his system, and was ready start a serious relationship with me. He was too late, David and I were already serious. &nbsp;</div><div class="p1"><br /></div><div class="p2">Andrew and I became friends, we went to dinner a few times. He tried to charm me into leaving David, but I could never trust Andrew after he broke my heart. That didn’t stop him from pursuing me anyway.&nbsp;</div><div class="p1"><br /></div><div class="p2">He showed up at my parents house, (when I wasn’t there) and cooked dinner for them. He drove my sister to night clubs so she wouldn’t have to take a cab. He kept an indirect presence in my life, trying to win favor with my family. It worked, they loved him.&nbsp;</div><div class="p1"><br /></div><div class="p2">&nbsp;David loathed Andrew. He was jealous over Andrew’s relationship with my family. David wasn’t stupid, he knew Andrew kept an eye out for trouble between us.&nbsp;</div><div class="p1"><br /></div><div class="p2">One year, on my mother’s birthday, a bunch of friends and family went to happy hour. My mother invited Andrew and I arrived with David. Awkward. It was a fun time, but the night ended with David and Andrew politely arguing over who was going to pay the bill.&nbsp;</div><div class="p1"><br /></div><div class="p2">As I said, awkward.&nbsp;</div><div class="p1"><br /></div><div class="p2">So you can imagine, the words, “Andrew could do it.”&nbsp;</div><div class="p1"><br /></div><div class="p2">Blasphemy.&nbsp;</div>HG Paigehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17202621073222851835noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4615654822124764658.post-3989827045495758872012-01-24T01:34:00.001-05:002012-01-24T01:40:05.574-05:00Sloth<div class="p1">I’ve been a sloth.&nbsp;</div><div class="p2"><br /></div><div class="p1">I haven’t written anything since 9/11. &nbsp;</div><div class="p2"><br /></div><div class="p1">After my last blog entry I worked on my Halloween costume. Halloween is my Christmas. I plan my costume months in advance. It’s a big deal for me. This year I was inspired by Steampunk. I tailored a faux suede outfit with chains and pearls, and tedious details. It was a lot of work, involved many sleepless nights, but completely worth it.&nbsp;</div><div class="p2"><br /></div><div class="p1">Starting November 1st, fighting off my Halloween hangover, I dove into NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). Thirty days and nights to write 50,000 words of fiction. I was planning to write a horror novel anyway and I thought, No better time then the present!</div><div class="p2"><br /></div><div class="p1">It was a great experience, but I don’t know if I will do it again. I was so focused on quantity, quality was thrown out the window. My grammar and spelling regressed to a second grade level. I also suffered several hand cramps. On the flip side, I now have a little icon that says, “Winner.”&nbsp;</div><div class="p1"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_cLTawsKhVk/Tx5OJn_H8GI/AAAAAAAAAK4/tNsfWYmw7Z0/s1600/nano1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_cLTawsKhVk/Tx5OJn_H8GI/AAAAAAAAAK4/tNsfWYmw7Z0/s1600/nano1.png" /></a></div><div class="p1"><br /></div><div class="p2"><br /></div><div class="p1">Thanksgiving came and went. I love food (Which is why it’s my second favorite holiday).&nbsp;</div><div class="p2"><br /></div><div class="p1">December 1st NaNoWriMo was over. I promised myself I was going to get back to blogging, but I was so burnt out. I started several blog entries, but I couldn’t get passed the first three sentences. I just stared at the&nbsp;screen&nbsp;and zoned out.&nbsp;</div><div class="p1"><br /></div><div class="p1">I needed a break. I celebrated Christmas and the New Year, but besides that, I spent much of my time watching netflix with my dog.</div><div class="p2"><br /></div><div class="p1">I feel so much better.&nbsp;</div><div class="p2"><br /></div>HG Paigehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17202621073222851835noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4615654822124764658.post-16415842983217735712011-09-11T16:01:00.004-04:002011-09-12T02:53:57.195-04:009/11 on 9/11<div class="p1">Today is 9//11. I try to stay away from writing about topics that are globally tragic. I much prefer writing about topics that are personally tragic. However, I was born and raised in NYC, and given that this is the ten year anniversary, I have decided to talk about my experience. &nbsp;</div><div class="p2"><br /></div><div class="p1">September 11, 2001</div><div class="p2"><br /></div><div class="p1">It was my second year of graduate school. I was living at home with my parents and my sister in Queens. I&nbsp; had a habit of leaving the television on mute while I slept. I was having bad dreams and the television helped. When I woke up a movie was playing. There was an explosion, I didn’t pay much attention. I grabbed my cell phone and called a friend. He picked up and said he was fine.&nbsp;</div><div class="p2"><br /></div><div class="p1">“Fine?” I asked.&nbsp;</div><div class="p2"><br /></div><div class="p1">“Aren’t you calling to see if I’m ok?” Silence. “Haven’t you seen the news?” More silence. “Someone flew a plane into the Twin Towers.”&nbsp;</div><div class="p2"><br /></div><div class="p1">I turned towards the television. I don’t remember thinking anything. I just remember the moment when I realized that I was watching the news not a movie. A minute or two passed and the second tower fell.&nbsp; I hung up. I frantically dialed numbers; my mother, my sister, my father, my friends, anyone I knew who would be in the city. All safe. Thank God.</div><div class="p2"><br /></div><div class="p1">I watched the news for two or three hours. I turned it off. It was too much. I was just there a few days ago. I don’t remember who called who, but I was on the phone with my friend, Maye.&nbsp; We decided that we both needed to get out of the house.</div><div class="p2"><br /></div><div class="p1">Maye and I met freshman year of college. We were introduced through a mutual friend. She was shy, but I won her over and we became good friends. She was born in China, but is defiantly a New Yorker. I still consider her one of my dearest friends.&nbsp;</div><div class="p2"><br /></div><div class="p1">We decided to go to the movies, get our minds off of everything. When we tried to buy tickets, we received a verbal lashing from the guy in the ticket booth. How could we go to a movie at a time like this? He told us that his muslim friends had been beaten up and was in the hospital.&nbsp;</div><div class="p2"><br /></div><div class="p1">Maye and I looked at each other. I told him that I felt bad for his friend but we couldn’t sit and watch the news all day, it was too upsetting. Besides, the trains weren’t running, we couldn’t even go to help. &nbsp;</div><div class="p2"><br /></div><div class="p1">At this point the manager showed up and gave the guy a stern look. Then we got our tickets. I don’t remember what we watched.&nbsp;</div><div class="p2"><br /></div><div class="p1">When I got back home, I found a scrap of paper in my pocket with a name and number, Will. Will worked in one of the towers. I met him at The World Trade Center a few days prior. We were supposed to go on a date. I called his number. Voicemail. I left a message.</div><div class="p2"><br /></div><div class="p1">The following days were quiet. Will called me back. He was on the ground floor getting a cup of coffee when the plane hit. He said that he ran into the subway, and followed a crowd into one of the cars.&nbsp;He said that the dust was so thick he could hardly see, let alone breath.&nbsp;</div><div class="p2"><br /></div><div class="p1">A week later we went out on our date. He spoke about his experience on 9/11. He said that every time he heard a loud noise his heart pounded in his chest. I was sympathetic to his trauma, but the tone in his voice made me think he was trying to get into my pants.&nbsp; My thoughts were confirmed. While driving me home he stopped the car, and pulled out his erect penis.&nbsp;</div><div class="p2"><br /></div><div class="p1">I just looked at him. I contemplated smacking him, but as I said, I was sympathetic. Being a survivor can make you do things that you normally wouldn’t. I got out of the car. I could hear him as I shut the door. “Come on, just touch it. We would be so good together.” I walk home. It was only a few blocks.&nbsp;</div><div class="p2"><br /></div><div class="p1">We went out twice after that, but I couldn’t forgive his penis display. That was that.&nbsp;</div><div class="p2"><br /></div><div class="p1">The following months were tough. I was saddened about the lives lost. At the same time, I’d never seen so many people come together to help one another.&nbsp; No riots, or looting, us New Yorkers were sticking together. That’s why we’re awesome.&nbsp;</div><div class="p2"><br /></div><div class="p1">I’m trying to think of something uplifting to end with. Something that makes you think of puppies and rainbows, but I’m just not that kind of person. Besides, puppies and rainbows seem a little inappropriate, even for me. &nbsp;</div>HG Paigehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17202621073222851835noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4615654822124764658.post-62375268555831661462011-09-10T12:25:00.001-04:002011-09-10T12:31:46.760-04:00Slippery<div class="p1">I was never big on blowjobs. Just not my thing. Throughout college I had a strict no blowjob policy. I never wanted to have some immature asshole go around bragging that I sucked his dick.&nbsp;</div><div class="p2"><br /></div><div class="p1">Fuck that!</div><div class="p2"><br /></div><div class="p1">However, as I got older, I sucked it up, so to speak.&nbsp; My no blowjob policy became lax. Although, I always opted for the Happy Ending instead.</div><div class="p2"><br /></div><div class="p1">David, my boyfriend, it turned out, was a fan of the Happy Ending. Well, at least in the traditional sense of getting a handjob from a “masseuse.”&nbsp;</div><div class="p2"><br /></div><div class="p1">A year after David and I started dating, opportunity knocked.&nbsp;</div><div class="p2"><br /></div><div class="p1">I had just graduated with my M.A. in psychology, and I needed a thinking break. At the time, I was working in a research lab and all the locked doors, windowless rooms, and constant silence was driving me crazy. I resigned.&nbsp;</div><div class="p2"><br /></div><div class="p1">I needed a job. A mindless job.</div><div class="p2"><br /></div><div class="p1">Apparently, I have a knack for finding the sketchiest of Craigslist ads. First the foot fetish gig then this: <i>Massage Therapy </i>(no experience required. Will train)<i>.</i>&nbsp;</div><div class="p2"><br /></div><div class="p1">“Oh, I know what <i>that </i>means.”&nbsp; David said with a nod.&nbsp;</div><div class="p2"><br /></div><div class="p1">I was apparently twenty-stupid and in my naivety, I disagreed.&nbsp;</div><div class="p2"><br /></div><div class="p1">Now, I don’t know if David devised his plan at that moment, or this was some dirty fantasy lingering in his mind.&nbsp;</div><div class="p2"><br /></div><div class="p1">“Let me try it out,” he said, “If you’re right, you can go to the interview.”&nbsp;</div><div class="p2"><br /></div><div class="p1">“And if I’m wrong, you get a handjob?”</div><div class="p2"><br /></div><div class="p1">I honestly didn’t think he had the balls.&nbsp;</div><div class="p2"><br /></div><div class="p1">David, I thought, was a pussy. So when he stated that he was going to call the ad, I honestly didn’t believe him. I should have noticed he was serious when he sweetened the pot.</div><div class="p2"><br /></div><div class="p1">He said that if he was wrong, he would give me a hundred bucks. On the flipped side, if he was right, I would give him a hundred bucks. I reiterated that if he was right, he was getting a FUCKING HANDJOB. The only rule was that there was to be no other sexual contact, especially kissing. I didn’t want to catch anything from some prostitute masquerading as a masseuse. And if he got arrested, don’t call me.</div><div class="p2"><br /></div><div class="p1">The night came (no pun intend), I went the gym, went home, and waited for the verdict. It was in the early evening when David called. And… Happy Ending achieved. <i>Oh, Fuck!</i><br /><i><br /></i></div><div class="p2"><i></i></div><div class="p1">I tried my best not to get angry. After all, I agreed to this mess. I congratulated him on his handjob and asked him to tell me the details. As he got to the end of his recap, he began to mumble. A sure sign he was hiding something.</div><div class="p2"><br /></div><div class="p1">“You better not have fucked that whore!” I said violently.&nbsp;</div><div class="p2"><br /></div><div class="p1">He assured me that he didn’t. I tried to calm down and coax it out of him.&nbsp; He insisted that I promise not to get mad before he told me. Jut saying that made me mad, but I promised.</div><div class="p2"><br /></div><div class="p1">“We kissed.” He said.</div><div class="p2"><br /></div><div class="p1">I kinda lost it then. I called him the nastiest names I could think of, told him it was over, and hung up. He called me back a few times before I picked it up. We talked and I decided not to break up with him. I just let him know he wasn’t getting anything from me for a long, long time.&nbsp;</div><div class="p2"><br /></div><div class="p1">A few months later David was going on a business trip. He asked me if he could visit a “massage parlor.” We had discussed our experiment at length and had become desensitized to the idea.&nbsp;</div><div class="p2"><br /></div><div class="p1">I made a deal with him, he could get his Happy Ending, but I had two conditions. First, I was not going to give him a blowjob or handjob as long as he continued visiting whores. Second, if I went out to a night club I would be allowed to kiss someone for every blowjob he got. After a serious discussion, we had a deal. &nbsp;</div><div class="p2"><br /></div><div class="p1">We stood on a slippery slope.&nbsp;</div>HG Paigehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17202621073222851835noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4615654822124764658.post-68605455142935723752011-08-15T19:25:00.003-04:002011-09-03T13:34:57.435-04:00Shaking the Devil<div style="font: 17.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I broke a wine glass the other day. It shattered into a million pieces on the kitchen floor. The shards nicked my feet in three different places, leaving tiny bloody dots. I was really annoyed. I only had two wine glasses.</span></div><div style="font: 17.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font: 17.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I decided to take it as a good omen.</span></div><div style="font: 17.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font: 17.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Breaking clear glass will ward off The Evil Eye.</span></div><div style="font: 17.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font: 17.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I know, it’s superstitious.</span></div><div style="font: 17.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font: 17.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Hexes. Curses. The Evil Eye. All intentionally, or unintentionally, cause misfortune, illness, or harm.</span></div><div style="font: 17.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font: 17.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Ever feel someone staring at you before you notice them? Feel the thick air of tension from someone agitated nearby? Is it that far fetched that someone can focus their agitation, envy, or hatred, and it cause harm?</span></div><div style="font: 17.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font: 17.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">After the <a href="http://thehorridgirl.blogspot.com/2011/04/hok.html">Hok</a> incident, my mother didn’t think so.</span></div><div style="font: 17.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font: 17.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">How do you protect yourself, you ask? Preemptive measures! When I was a child, that meant a ritual blessing and spiritual cleansing.</span></div><div style="font: 17.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font: 17.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Flower petals, leaves, spices, and blessed water, these are the ingredients for a cleansing ritual. The specific ingredients change for the person, and the desired results. I remember the scent of cinnamon, and the shock of having freezing water poured over me, while my mother and aunt recited prayers.</span></div><div style="font: 17.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font: 17.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I was SAVED!</span></div><div style="font: 17.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font: 17.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">There was a log break from the family witchery after that. Besides the bi-monthly tarot readings, all was calm. At least, until high school, when it was decided that I was hexed. I don’t remember how, or even why it was decided, but it was.</span></div><div style="font: 17.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font: 17.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Arial;">“</span>Put a glass of water under your bed tonight,” instructed my aunt, the <a href="http://thehorridgirl.blogspot.com/2011/05/bruja.html">bruja</a>. She said she was going to come back the next morning. So, before I went to bed, I picked out sturdy glass, filled it with cold water, and found a spot directly below my pillow.</span></div><div style="font: 17.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font: 17.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The next morning, I met her in the backyard with my glass. She told me to pour out the water, while reciting a prayer, and leave the glass. I did. As I turned to face her, I was assaulted with florida water. She dowsed her hands then splashed it at me.</span></div><div style="font: 17.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font: 17.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The florida water I expected. I did not expect her to grab me by my shoulders, turn me towards the trees, and shake the Devil outta me. She shook me very hard, yelling, “Pray, pray!” while reciting a prayer herself.</span></div><div style="font: 17.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font: 17.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I was taken incredibly off guard! In my head, I was like, <i>What the fuck?? </i>I tried my best not to laugh. It’s not that I didn’t take it all seriously, I just have a nervous laughter (which has gotten me into trouble).</span></div><div style="font: 17.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font: 17.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Afterwards, she gestured with her hands, <i>done. </i>Then she walked into the house, and had a cup of coffee with my mother. You know, like any normal person would do after a sorta exorcism. I just went back to my room and gossiped about it with my sister.</span></div><div style="font: 17.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font: 17.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Hexed or not, better safe then sorry.</span></div><div style="font: 17.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Arial;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><b>NOTE: </b>Florida water is a </span></span></i></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">floral and citrus scented cologne used for ritual purification. It is available at your local botánica, voodoo shop, or witchcraft store.</span></i></span></div><div style="font: 13.0px Optima; margin: 8.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px; text-indent: 28.0px;"><br /></div>HG Paigehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17202621073222851835noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4615654822124764658.post-77024759763901045942011-08-10T22:58:00.004-04:002011-08-11T17:54:16.263-04:00Sordid<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">&nbsp;<span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Arial;">“</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span">You know, I’ve </span><span class="Apple-style-span"><i>always</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span"> had a rape fantasy.” That’s what David said when I told him about my rape. I KNEW he was </span><span class="Apple-style-span"><i>way</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span"><i>too</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span"> interested. He kept asking questions and leaning in to hear all the sordid details.</span></span><br /><div style="font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font: 18.0px Cochin; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">It happened a long time ago. I'm over it. Luckily, I wasn’t a <a href="http://thehorridgirl.blogspot.com/2011/08/bloody-sheets.html">virgin</a> anymore. That would have been traumatic. I wasn’t beaten either. I suppose that would be the bright side, if there was a bright side to rape.</span></div><div style="color: #4f0d51; font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font: 18.0px Cochin; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>The History of Rape, </i>he was almost proud to bring out his prized porno. I assume he thought that since he had a rape fantasy and that I had been raped, we were cosmically meant to have a deeper, meaningful relationship.</span></div><div style="font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font: 18.0px Cochin; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">On the surface, David was highly educated, with a double major. He grew up in the Midwest, and was raised as a Conservative Jew. In reality, he was void of common sense. I often wondered how he survived life. He was also, hypocritically, an atheist. When I met him, he lived on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, and worked in the financial field.</span></div><div style="font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font: 18.0px Cochin; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">At this point, we were experimenting sexually, and had recently become exclusive. We were in the <i>tell me your dark secret </i>phase. “Can we role-play a rape?” He had the nerve to ask me that. I wanted to punch him in the face. Hard.</span></div><div style="color: #4f0d51; font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font: 18.0px Cochin; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">It may sound incredibly fucked up, but after some thought, I agreed.</span></div><div style="font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font: 18.0px Cochin; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The role-playing lasted about three minutes. I screamed as he ripped off my shirt then I did it. I punched him in the face. Hard. Suddenly, he wanted to stop. He said I was fighting too hard. I assured him that real life rape was nothing like his circa 1980, big bushed, oh-no-don’t-put-that-big-cock-inside-a-me, wannabe history of rape VHS.</span></div><div style="color: #4f0d51; font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font: 18.0px Cochin; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Idiot.</span></div><div style="color: #4f0d51; font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font: 18.0px Cochin; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I don’t know why I stayed with him. Maybe I was too busy with graduate school to invest time in anyone else. Besides, before the confession of his delusional rape fantasy, we got along well enough. David never brought it up again. Who knows, maybe that punch knocked some sense into him.</span></div><div style="font: 18.0px Cochin; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 21.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font: 18.0px Cochin; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">One can only hope.&nbsp;</span></div><div id="myEventWatcherDiv" style="display: none;"></div>HG Paigehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17202621073222851835noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4615654822124764658.post-13599820975016498962011-08-07T12:46:00.003-04:002011-08-07T22:15:08.224-04:00Bloody Sheets<div style="font: 16.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">As I mentioned in my <a href="http://thehorridgirl.blogspot.com/2011/03/foot-note.html">Foot Note</a>, sex was not a big topic in my family. I was “<a href="http://thehorridgirl.blogspot.com/2011/05/bruja.html">Catholic</a>” and sex was for marriage. The idea of waiting until marriage was absolutely ridiculous. My greatest fear was loosing my virginity on my wedding night and it sucked. Then what? A life of bad sex? No thank you. Besides, unless I married young, it made no sense. I had plans. I wanted a career. I was not going to end up a thirty year old virgin because I wasn’t married.</span></div><div style="color: #4f0d51; font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">About a year after the <a href="http://thehorridgirl.blogspot.com/2011/03/awful-kiss.html">Awful Kiss</a>, I decided I wanted to loose my virginity. Chris, a guy that lived just a few blocks away, was 2 years older, and was not virgin. He was very cute, funny, and slightly unsure of himself. I didn’t know him very well, and he was a little shocked when I asked him to be my first. “Don’t you want it to be special?” he asked.</span></div><div style="font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I explained to him that I wanted the experience. I did not want to loose my virginity to a boyfriend, who would destroy my heart when we broke up. No man will have that hold on me.&nbsp;</span></div><div style="color: #4f0d51; font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">He obviously agreed. He’s a guy. Free (safe) sex. No brainer.</span></div><div style="color: #4f0d51; font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The first time was… painful. But it was an enjoyable pain. There was tearing. There was blood. But there were also endorphins, pheromones, and adrenaline. Afterwards, there was no awkwardness. I did not feel any different. I felt like I had gotten something out of the way.</span></div><div style="font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">We met up once or twice a week after that. I needed practice, and he’s a guy, free sex. I bled the first several times. The tearing healed up and ripped open every time he reentered my body. I was sore, and my inner thighs hurt like a bitch. Eventually though, my body adjusted. I felt a little bad about all the bloody sheets. When the bleeding finally stopped, we hi-fived.</span></div><div style="font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I know everyone is told to wait until they’re in love, but that’s bullshit. No teenager can understand love. I mean no adult can understand love, or even being in love, unless you’ve had your heart stomped on. It’s the only way you understand your mistakes, and how to be a better person. Or at least, how to be a better person in a relationship.</span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I understood that even then.&nbsp;</span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I was always so wise.&nbsp;</span></div><div><br /></div>HG Paigehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17202621073222851835noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4615654822124764658.post-33239209611428965632011-08-01T11:52:00.000-04:002011-08-01T11:52:47.088-04:00Very Bad Dreams<div style="color: #181818; font: 13.0px Optima; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 44.0px;">I can’t wake up.</div><div style="color: #181818; font: 13.0px Optima; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px; text-indent: 44.0px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #181818; font: 13.0px Optima; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 44.0px;">The doll with the burnt out eye is playing the piano and turns towards me, “You are going to die here.” &nbsp;</div><div style="color: #181818; font: 13.0px Optima; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px; text-indent: 44.0px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #181818; font: 13.0px Optima; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 44.0px;">I panic. I scream. My eyelids are heavy. &nbsp;</div><div style="color: #181818; font: 13.0px Optima; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px; text-indent: 44.0px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #181818; font: 13.0px Optima; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 44.0px;">I can’t wake up.</div><div style="color: #181818; font: 13.0px Optima; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px; text-indent: 44.0px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #181818; font: 13.0px Optima; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 44.0px;">I know I am asleep. I know this is a dream. But this does not change the terror I feel when the doll looks at me. &nbsp;</div><div style="color: #181818; font: 13.0px Optima; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px; text-indent: 44.0px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #181818; font: 13.0px Optima; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 44.0px;">I open my eyes.</div><div style="color: #181818; font: 13.0px Optima; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px; text-indent: 44.0px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #181818; font: 13.0px Optima; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 44.0px;">I feel the dead weight of my body. I am lying in bed. I can not move. I can still hear the piano. There is a dark figure standing over me, watching me.&nbsp;</div><div style="color: #181818; font: 13.0px Optima; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px; text-indent: 44.0px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #181818; font: 13.0px Optima; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 44.0px;">I can’t wake up.</div><div style="color: #181818; font: 13.0px Optima; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px; text-indent: 44.0px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #181818; font: 13.0px Optima; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 44.0px;">I am in a waking dream; terrified, unable to move, unable to scream. I use every ounce of strength I have to move but I can only wiggle my pinky. It was enough. The spell is broken. I sit up. There is no dark figure. There is no music. It is 3 a.m. And once again, I can’t sleep.</div><div style="color: #181818; font: 13.0px Optima; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px; text-indent: 44.0px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #181818; font: 13.0px Optima; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 44.0px;">Sleep paralysis. In the transition state from asleep to awake, my mind, in it’s terror, is partially woken. My body is paralyzed, playing catch-up with my mind. It’s fairly common. The effects are paralysis of the body and simultaneously being awake and dreaming causing hallucinations. Trippy and terrifying.</div><div style="color: #181818; font: 13.0px Optima; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px; text-indent: 44.0px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #181818; font: 13.0px Optima; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 44.0px;">This all started because I have fucking insomnia. Between cramming all night, and work. I had too much on my mind. countless nights I'd lay in bed and stare at the crack in the ceiling.&nbsp; I tried to exhaust myself at the gym, count backwards from a thousand, nothing worked. It wasn’t healthy. I needed sleep.&nbsp;</div><div style="color: #181818; font: 13.0px Optima; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px; text-indent: 44.0px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #181818; font: 13.0px Optima; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 44.0px;">On a random visit to the pharmacy I picked up some over-the-counter sleeping pills. Main active ingredient: diphenhydramine. They knocked me out. I was a rock. They also made me very groggy in the mornings.&nbsp;</div><div style="color: #181818; font: 13.0px Optima; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px; text-indent: 44.0px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #181818; font: 13.0px Optima; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 44.0px;">Everything seemed manageable until I had a very bad dream. I’ve always had bad dreams, ever since I was a child. In fact, the first dream I remember was a reoccurring nightmare. It involved furniture moving on it’s own, a barking rottweiler and the devil. I was seven and it terrified me.&nbsp;</div><div style="color: #181818; font: 13.0px Optima; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px; text-indent: 44.0px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #181818; font: 13.0px Optima; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 44.0px;">Over the years, my nightmares became worse. I dreamt of demons, dreamt of serial killers, dreamt of death.&nbsp;I became desensitized.&nbsp;No matter how bad the dream, I’d wake up and just go back to sleep. That was, until the sleeping pills.&nbsp;</div><div style="color: #181818; font: 13.0px Optima; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px; text-indent: 44.0px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #181818; font: 13.0px Optima; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 44.0px;">Sleep paralysis. I had two or three episodes a week; terrified, frozen, helpless (although, I enjoyed the one with the cartoons dancing around my room).&nbsp;At first,&nbsp;I didn't know that the sleeping pills contributed to my condition, when I did, I stopped taking them. I don't know why but the episodes continued.&nbsp;</div><div style="color: #181818; font: 13.0px Optima; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px; text-indent: 44.0px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #181818; font: 13.0px Optima; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 44.0px;">Knowing what was happening to me did not make me any less terrified. Every time it happened I focused on my pinky. My greatest fear was waiting for the day that moving a pinky no longer worked. I was afraid to sleep. So once again, I had insomnia.&nbsp;</div><div style="color: #181818; font: 13.0px Optima; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px; text-indent: 44.0px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #181818; font: 13.0px Optima; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 44.0px;">I continue to have insomnia. I've tried everything. I rarely take sleeping pills any more. If I do they are defiantly not diphenhydramine. I haven’t had an episode in a while (knock on wood).&nbsp; But I still have very bad dreams.&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div>HG Paigehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17202621073222851835noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4615654822124764658.post-47095067755766597652011-07-29T22:48:00.000-04:002011-07-29T22:48:56.149-04:00SPLAT<div style="font: 16.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">A year after my stalker saga, I finally opened up to dating. It wasn’t that my faith in the male of the species was restored, but my sister convinced me that I should avoid my path towards social freakhood and ostracism. I agreed to go out with a friend of hers. She had nothing but nice things to say about him.</span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I honestly don’t remember his name. All I remember is that he was really tall, knew martial arts, and was <i>not</i> blond. While driving to dinner, he confessed that he only befriended my sister to get closer to me. I think he was trying to flatter me. I found this appalling. Especially after all the nice things she said about him. It was an immediate validation of my dating sabbatical.</span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The rest of the night was so-so. I let him kiss me after dinner (Probably the wine). He asked if I felt the<i> electricity</i> between us. So cheesy. He really thought I was going to sleep with him. I knew this because after I asked him to drive me home, he called and cancelled a hotel room.</span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br /></div><div style="font: 16.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Dickhead.</span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Two weeks later my sister told me, SPLAT, he got hit by a truck. I Laughed. I couldn’t stop laughing. She got all upset. It never even occurred to me to ask if he was still alive. At least, not until she said he got away with only a few broken bones. I did wonder what kind of truck it was, if only for the visual.&nbsp;</span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I can't even tell that story without a giggle. I guess I would call that <i>schadenfreude</i>&nbsp;(pleasure derived from the misfortunes of others). But in my defense, he really was a dickhead.&nbsp;</span></div>HG Paigehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17202621073222851835noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4615654822124764658.post-46250721190239380262011-07-18T16:09:00.002-04:002011-07-18T16:15:26.065-04:00Pretty through the Window<div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px;">I never liked dating. But my general strangeness had already labeled me a freak and a bitch, so dating seemed like a normalizing step. Unfortunately, I was too preoccupied with school and personal projects to differentiate between passionate and obsessive. This was a problem. I wonder if I had payed more attention that I could have weeded out the stalkers. My Bad.&nbsp;</span></div><div style="color: #4f0d51; font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br /></div><div style="font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>Psycho Bob</b></div><div style="color: #4f0d51; font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br /></div><div style="font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">My first stalker was Psycho Bob. I met Psycho Bob at a seance orchestrated to relieve the boredom of a high school dance. He was just Bob then. Bob was 6’1” with hazel blue eyes, dirty blond hair, and a damaged personality.</div><div style="color: #4f0d51; font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br /></div><div style="font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">We dated for a year before Bob’s “psychoness” began to seep through. His love notes entailed passages such as keeping my dead body encased in wax. I am sure he thought it was romantic, turning me into a <i><a href="http://www.bodiestheexhibition.com/">Bodies</a> </i>exhibit. I slowly became aware of his possessiveness, spying, stalking, and accusations of cheating.&nbsp;</div><div style="color: #4f0d51; font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br /></div><div style="font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I decided it was time to say good-bye to Bob, but Bob, now Psycho Bob, did not agree. The attempt ended with his hands around my throat threatening to, “squeeze out my last breath.” &nbsp;There was a sense of, <i>Oh, fuck</i>! Probably not as scary as waking up chained in his basement, but still. I somehow convinced him to let go. Then he said, “It’s not over until I say it’s over.” Typical.</div><div style="color: #4f0d51; font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br /></div><div style="font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I was starting university and decided I was going to be a Bitch to him until <i>he</i> broke up with <i>me</i>. Bitchiness triumphed! A week later I was Psycho Bob free. It was genius! &nbsp;Or so I thought.&nbsp;</div><div style="color: #4f0d51; font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br /></div><div style="font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">He called me constantly asking for forgiveness. He threatened to let his fish starve because he was too depressed to feed them. Yes, his pet fish did die and it was all my fault. When that ploy didn’t work, he claimed to have cancer. &nbsp;Miraculously, he was in remission a week later. Apparently, Jesus loves him.&nbsp;</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br /></div><div style="font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Once he finally realized it was over, he left hate mail at my house (which I kept), roadkill on my doorstep (which I did not keep), and stalked me around campus. He even ranted about me on university radio. Great for my social life (thumbs up). I should have sued.</div><div style="color: #4f0d51; font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br /></div><div style="font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">It finally ended with a restraining order through the University. &nbsp;</div><div style="color: #4f0d51; font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br /></div><div style="font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>The Foreigner</b></div><div style="color: #4f0d51; font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br /></div><div style="font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">After Psycho Bob (PB), I was understandably jaded. I decided to focus on my studies. The Foreigner overlapped with the tail end of my break-up with PB, my freshman year at university. Like PB, he had dirty blond hair and blue eyes (a sign), unlike PB though, he had a Ukrainian accent. The Foreigner was part of my small group of friends that met up after class, went out to eat, and mostly just hung out.&nbsp;</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br /></div><div style="font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">After a few months, I started to get strange phone calls at night, mostly hang-ups. I assumed it was PB until I received a call with nothing but music playing. It was No Doubt, “Don’t Speak<i>.”</i> I had my suspicions who it was after The Foreigner started showing signs of jealousy towards my other male friends.&nbsp;</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br /></div><div style="font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I confronted him about the phone calls. I expected him to deny it, but he didn’t. I told him that if he wanted to talk, he could. The Foreigner then admitted that he had also sat in his car across the street from my house, watching until my light went out.&nbsp;</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br /></div><div style="font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Defiantly not okay. I made him promise to stop. He reluctantly agreed. Two nights later, I saw his car across the street (I must look pretty through the window). I walked up to his car and told him, very firmly, to leave.&nbsp;</div><div style="color: #4f0d51; font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br /></div><div style="font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">That was the end of that.&nbsp;</div><div style="color: #4f0d51; font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br /></div><div style="font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Since then I’ve steered clear of the blond haired, blue eyed types. No offense.</div><div><br /></div>HG Paigehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17202621073222851835noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4615654822124764658.post-51941291508434213832011-07-11T01:07:00.000-04:002011-07-11T01:07:11.511-04:00Evil Bitch<div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">I was writing a blog entry just a moment ago. It is about the boyfriends I have disposed of. I don’t mean dissolved with lye in the bathtub disposed of, obviously (although, I have been tempted a few times). I started going off on a tangent about getting hate mail, hate messages, and notes of general unhappiness.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">You see, I keep my hate mail. I like to read them from time to time. You know, to gain perspective on how I’ve grown as a person. I noticed they have a reoccurring theme.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">Here are some highlights:</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">“You are an evil bitch.” (Maybe True)</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">“You are so selfish.” (Sometimes True)</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">“You don’t care about anyone but yourself.” (Not True. I Love Animals!)</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">“If I died, you wouldn’t care.” (Probably True)</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">Could it be, that I am so awesome, that the absence of me makes them go crazy? Maybe, or maybe I’m just a crazy magnet. Probably a little bit of both.</div>HG Paigehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17202621073222851835noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4615654822124764658.post-92061108857538857912011-05-17T13:32:00.000-04:002011-05-17T13:32:45.641-04:00Bruja<div style="font: 14.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 13.0px 0.0px;">“Don’t tell anyone, or they will call her a Bruja,” said my mother.&nbsp; The Bruja, to which my mother referred, was my Aunt. She has The Gift. If you didn’t know, bruja is the Spanish word for witch.</div><div style="font: 14.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 13.0px 0.0px;">I can only describe my family’s practice as a combination of Native American/folk religion and Catholicism with a dash of Santeria. More of a spiritualism. But if anyone asks, we’re Catholic, definitely NOT witches.&nbsp;</div><div style="font: 14.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 13.0px 0.0px;">It was common, where I grew up in Brooklyn, to have mixed practices. You go to Mass every Sunday, but then there is that other thing. That thing you just don’t talk about.</div><div style="font: 14.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 13.0px 0.0px;">For example; the house across the street had the front yard blocked off for their… chickens. The delusion of them being pet chickens quickly dissolved after finding my first headless chicken in a trash can. Apparently, they were brujas too.&nbsp;</div><div style="font: 14.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 13.0px 0.0px;">Unlike our neighbors, we did not sacrifice chickens, nor did we have elaborately decorated alters. While they had statues of the “saints” with offerings of alcohol, flowers, chicken bones, and coins, we only hung a few crosses in our home. But that didn’t matter. It was our Faith that mattered.</div><div style="font: 14.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 13.0px 0.0px;">I was taught that you have guardian angels, guides, and spirits around you, your “people”. Faith gives them strength to help guide you through your life. The only way I can describe it is like having really sharp instincts. They are the inclination that makes you turn left instead of right. They are the warning you feel in your guts when something really bad is about to happen. They are the omens.</div><div style="font: 14.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 13.0px 0.0px;">You build a relationship with your guides through prayer. Prayer is energy. Blood rituals were forbidden. Blood binds you in life as well as in spirit. Blood is a powerful source of energy. It is life, but it is more difficult to use. Anyway, blood magic was for witches, and we’re Catholic, definitely NOT witches.&nbsp;</div><div style="font: 14.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 13.0px 0.0px;">As I got older, and learned more of the family craft, the line began between bruja and being spiritual began to waiver. I learned about faith as energy. That energy can be a propeller for protection and luck. I learned that everything requires sacrifice, and that sacrifice means a lot of things. Nothing is free.</div><div style="font: 14.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 13.0px 0.0px;">I learned that spells and prayers are the same thing. I learned to be careful what I ask for and to balance myself. I also learned to never wish harm upon others because everything comes back to you, eventually.</div><div style="font: 14.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 13.0px 0.0px;">I learned that every family craft was different. I learned that a bruja can be both good and terrible. I learned about a type of faith that you can only grow up with, and never really understand as an outsider. But, just in case anyone asks, we’re Catholic, definitely NOT witches.</div><div><br /></div>HG Paigehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17202621073222851835noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4615654822124764658.post-71146176831062940342011-04-30T12:36:00.000-04:002011-04-30T12:36:58.682-04:00Hok<div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 13.0px 0.0px;">I am told that, when I was a child, I could see spirits. Yes, I know how that sounds. Just to make things clear, I do not claim to see any spirits. In fact, I can say with 100% certainty, that to my memory I have never seen any spirits, ghosts, poltergeist, or anything of the sort.&nbsp; But, this is what I was told.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 13.0px 0.0px;">For those who are spiritual, it is a common belief that children are more open to experiencing something of a supernatural nature. Hell, I actually do believe it.&nbsp; Both children and animals. But to hear it about you is just very different than actually believing in it.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 13.0px 0.0px;">My mother tells this story from my childhood with hesitation. The kind of hesitation that tell me she remembers the fear she felt when it happened. She said it started when she noticed me reaching my arms up in the air, the way children do when they want to be picked up. I reached at nothing. She also noticed that sometimes I’d hide behind a chair, or even behind her legs, peeking my head out. I was afraid of something.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 13.0px 0.0px;">I am told that I stared at it, whatever “it” was, and followed it with my finger as it passed through the room. Most people would assume I was following a bug or some dust in the air but my mother, somewhat versed in the spiritual, asked me what I was looking at.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 13.0px 0.0px;">I said, “Hok.”</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 13.0px 0.0px;">On night, my mother came to check on me in my bedroom. She says it was one of the most terrifying moments in her life. She said, “It was like someone grabbed you, and was slamming you around the room.” She said she ran to my side but was pushed against the wall, and had to use all her strength to get to me. She says that when she finally had me in her arms, she prayed over me all night. For all I know, I might have had a seizure. It was dark. Maybe I pushed her with seizure strength reflex.&nbsp;</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 13.0px 0.0px;">The next day she called a priest. I don’t know if it was a real priest or a witch doctor type. She had the house cleaned and blessed. To explain, when I say cleaned, I don’t mean with maid service, I mean like horror movie, “This house is clean,” kinda cleaned. A spiritual cleaning to remove negativity.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 13.0px 0.0px;">After the house blessing, I don't know how long after, my mother said I pointed to the window, and whisper in her ear…</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 13.0px 0.0px;">“Hok is outside.”</div>HG Paigehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17202621073222851835noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4615654822124764658.post-56062262085064484492011-03-28T00:09:00.002-04:002011-03-28T01:16:02.591-04:00Foot Note<div style="color: #181818; font: 17.0px Optima; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 53.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Believe it or not, I get embarrassed when I write about my sexual experiences. It’s true. I was raised in a strict Spanish, Catholic home, and you didn't talk about sex. Sex was for marriage. Sex was private. Even now when I look back at what I’ve done, I shake my head and think, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I can’t believe I did that</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. It was like some crazy movie, cheesy dialogue and all. Still, to talk about it, I’m embarrassed.</span></div><div style="color: #181818; font: 17.0px Optima; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 53.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #181818; font: 17.0px Optima; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 53.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I was always told I was sexy. My sister was always beautiful and cute but me, sexy. I didn’t want to be the sexy one. I would have been happy with beautiful or cute. It was kind of ironic since I was a goth tomboy throughout college. I studied hard and didn’t pay much attention to what I wore, as long as it was black. I suppose being labeled sexy lead me to explore my sexuality despite my trauma from <i><a href="http://thehorridgirl.blogspot.com/2011/03/awful-kiss.html">The Awful Kiss</a></i>.&nbsp;</span></div><div style="color: #181818; font: 17.0px Optima; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 53.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #181818; font: 17.0px Optima; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 53.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">When I was in graduate school I went to a foot interview. I answered this completely sketchy CraigsList ad that could have been some psycho-killer that wanted to keep my feet on a shelf in his refrigerator. But it was just some guy that wanted to check my feet out for some fetish work. I already knew I had nice feet. I previously dated a man that asked to see my feet. When I showed them to him, he was so happy he lifted me off the ground in a big hug.&nbsp;</span></div><div style="color: #181818; font: 17.0px Optima; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 53.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #181818; font: 17.0px Optima; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 53.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">So I’m at the interview, an amazing loft with big pillows, intricately designed carpets, and a sofa area with flowing curtains like some exotic arabian movie. A chair was set up in the middle of a room, and this young, not-so-bad-looking guy has me sit down, and take my shoes off. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">So I can’t run away? </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The guy kneels next to me and holds my feet up to the light. He checks them in different angles, measures them, smells them. He did everything but lick them. Then the talk. What a foot fetish is, how they set up appointments. I knew it was a sexual thing, blah blah… kissing feet, blah, blah… massaging feet, blah blah. I passed the foot test! Yay! So, I leave and head into the subway to my at-the-time boyfriend David’s apartment.&nbsp;</span></div><div style="color: #181818; font: 17.0px Optima; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 53.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #181818; font: 17.0px Optima; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 53.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">When I get to the apartment, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Ring ring</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. The foot guy. Apparently, a German business man was in town looking for some foot loving. $250 bucks for 30 minutes. Plus a tip! </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">You must always remember to tip your foot whore! </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I paused for a second with three thoughts; 1. $250 to </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">get</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> a foot massage, not so bad for 30 mins. 2. Possibly he wanted to keep my feet on a shelf in his refrigerator. I was about to say ok when into my head pops the image of an old, saggy, fat German man jizzing on himself, or even worse, MY FEET! Cringe. Shutter. Um, No Thank You.</span></div><div style="color: #181818; font: 17.0px Optima; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 53.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #181818; font: 17.0px Optima; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 53.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">That was the end of that. I chickened out. Good times.&nbsp;At least I still have my feet.&nbsp;</span></div>HG Paigehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17202621073222851835noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4615654822124764658.post-57332548937052857172011-03-26T23:56:00.002-04:002011-08-07T00:41:25.946-04:00The Awful Kiss<div style="font: 13.0px Optima; margin: 8.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 28.0px;">Before the age of 26, a sexual experience with another woman was pretty much a no-go. I mean, I‘m a good looking girl, I had offers. I guess I was more worried about the fall-out of being labeled a lesbian. After all, I was enrolled in Catholic school my whole life. However, It was my during time at an all-girls Catholic high school that there was just a little blip.&nbsp;</div><div style="font: 13.0px Optima; margin: 8.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 28.0px;">To be honest, the first time I kissed a girl wasn’t sexy. There were no fireworks, there was no passion, it was just awful. I was fifteen when it happened, the awful kiss. At the time I had what I call whore’s lips. I recently discovered kissing and I was obsessed with it. I kissed as often as possible. At&nbsp; the time, my kissing partner was my friend Sarah’s cousin, John. Sarah was WEIRD. And I don’t mean she was lesbian weird, she was just weird in general. She would get mad at me if I didn’t call her, even though I saw her at school everyday. I always just brushed her behavior off as nothing. A possessive friend. Sarah was the facilitator of the awful kiss.&nbsp;</div><div style="font: 13.0px Optima; margin: 8.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 28.0px;">One day she convinces me to come over to her house using John as bait. I go. We talk. We play video games. I was playing Sonic the Hedgehog when John showed up. She strategically sits next to me and whispers, “Don’t freak out.” <i>Don’t freak out??</i> <i>What does that mean?? </i>I glanced at her and&nbsp; shrugged my shoulders, <i>what?</i></div><div style="font: 13.0px Optima; margin: 8.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 28.0px;">“I want to weird him out,” she says.<i> </i>She sits on my lap and hooks her arm around my neck. I kept playing my game but in my head I’m like,&nbsp;<i> what the fuck??&nbsp;</i> “Don’t move,” she says. <i>Don’t move</i>? Then she kisses my cheek. A little kiss. I turn to look at her and I remember thinking <i>she is going to kiss me</i>. Like REALLY kiss me. I didn’t know what to do. Then there it was, the awful kiss. Smack on my mouth!&nbsp; I was in shock from the kiss when her hand went down my shirt. I shot up, knocking her to the floor, and in a panic yelled out, “You made me lose my game!”&nbsp;</div><div style="font: 13.0px Optima; margin: 8.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 28.0px;">For the next 12 years there were no sexual experiences with another woman. I think I was traumatized…&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div>HG Paigehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17202621073222851835noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4615654822124764658.post-10395509547831809752011-03-12T16:19:00.001-05:002011-03-25T02:18:26.740-04:00There Was a Little Girl<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #111111; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">There was a little girl,<br />Who had a little curl,<br />Right in the middle of her forehead.<br />When she was good,<br />She was very good indeed,<br />But when she was bad she was horrid.<br /><br /><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Henry Wadsworth Longfellow&nbsp;</span></span>HG Paigehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17202621073222851835noreply@blogger.com